


your bordeaux dress uncorked

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a heady sort of freedom, to be able to kiss him as she wishes, when she wishes. Their weekend away has only just begun and already she knows it will be over too soon for her liking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your bordeaux dress uncorked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Stand At Your Gate (And The Song That I Sing Is Of Moonlight)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/727686) by [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08). 



> Jon and Sansa take a weekend away.

It seems as if the car is going a hundred miles an hour. Sansa knows that it's not – no car could go so fast – but that's how it feels as she holds her face to the wind that blows in the open window, tossing her hair about her face, pulling long streamers free from the ribbon she's tied it up into at the back of her head. She tries to catch all the madly blowing strands, tucking them back behind her ears only for the wind to blow them free again, and she laughs at the lovely futility of it. Jon smiles at her, glancing away from the road longer than he really should to look over at her, though at least he keeps both hands on the wheel. Benny Goodman is on the radio and Sansa feels lighter and happier than she has in years.

"Tell me again about the cottage," she begs him, though he's already told her about it a dozen times. But he only smiles and humors her. He always humors her.

"There's a bay window that looks out over the lake," he says, "and dormers in the bedrooms so you can watch the sun set over the marshes."

"And there are herons?" she prompts him, smiling when he glances at her and nods, his lips quirking in that peculiar way they have, one side up and one side down. She loves the down side, loves the incongruity of it on his smiling face. It's her favorite spot to kiss and she scoots across the seat to do so now, planting her lips on the corner of his mouth with a playfully loud smack. It's a heady sort of freedom, to be able to kiss him as she wishes, when she wishes. Their weekend away has only just begun and already she knows it will be over too soon for her liking.

"Herons and egrets," he says, smiling that smile at her, taking one arm off the wheel to loop around her waist and pull her close to him. "And ducks."

"Ducks!" she exclaims with dramatic joy, and he laughs out loud, squeezing her to his side.

"All the ducks you could want," he says.

*

It's just as Jon said it would be. The clapboard house is all weathered blues and crisp white, so tiny and charming as to bring to mind a dollhouse wrought at normal size. A deep porch wraps around two sides, looking out over the lake and dock. The nearest neighboring cottage is barely visible down the shoreline. No human sounds reach Sansa's ears, only the humming of the cicadas, the rustle of the reeds that skirt the lake, the distant quacking of the ducks that are silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

"Ducks," she says happily to Jon, "just as you promised."

"Just as I promised," Jon agrees, lifting their bags from the trunk before elbowing it shut with a creak and a metallic thud. "The inside is just as I promised as well," he hints, and Sansa laughs and follows him up the walk, skipping ahead to hold the screen door for him, despite his attempt to get there first. She sticks her tongue out at his scowl. Chivalry is well and good, but sometimes sense is better.

The downstairs is just as she'd pictured from seeing the outside, cozy and beachy and peaceful. Already her mind is thinking of a hundred things they should do – have a fire in the hearth, nap together on the comfortable-looking sofa, play all of the board games and read all of the books that line the shelves. It's been forever since Sansa had such a stretch of time for herself and she's torn between filling it to the brim and doing nothing at all, merely spending every second glued to Jon's side. Her heart is leaning towards the latter, so she drifts after him as he climbs the stairs with their luggage. He hesitates in the landing upstairs, looking between the two doors that lead into the bedrooms. He turns to look at her, uncertainty in his eyes, and with a pang she realizes he's unsure whether to put their bags in separate rooms or not, unwilling to presume that he'll be sharing her bed despite the nights he's spent doing just that for the past months. It works into her heart like a splinter, and she steps forward, twining her arms about his neck and kissing him softly, sweetly, until he opens his lips under hers and the suitcases bump against her hips as he instinctively tries to wrap her in his arms.

"Let's take this one," she says, circling her fingers about his wrist as she moves away and drawing him into the brighter of the two rooms after her, smiling when he ducks his head sheepishly, that half-up-half-down smile of his pushing a dimple into his cheek. She pushes the curtains open wide to look at the view as he sets their bags in front of the closet. The lake is sparkling in the late afternoon sun like it's covered in jewels. Suddenly Sansa feels so free it's almost frightening, like she can do anything or be anyone she wants, anyone at all. As if sensing her mood, Jon steps behind her and wraps protective arms around her waist, pressing his lips to the sweep of hair just above her nape, smooth where it's pulled up into the ribbon.

"I made a dinner reservation in town for seven," he says, moving his lips to the soft spot behind her ear and making her shiver. She tilts her head to the side in a suggestion – in an invitation – and he takes it, sucking a soft, wet kiss on the side of her neck, just shy of firmly enough to leave a mark.

"That's over an hour from now," she sighs dramatically. "Whatever shall we do until then?" Jon smiles against her neck, she can feel the curve of his lips on her skin. Then he moves around in front of her, the broad stretch of his shoulders filling up her view before he kneels at her feet. Automatically, her fingers spear through his curls, curving possessively over his skull as he presses a sweet kiss to the curve of her abdomen before dragging her skirt up her legs and opening his mouth over her at the juncture of her thighs, his tongue wetting her already damp underwear as he sucks at her deeply enough to bring her to her knees, were he not supporting her with steady arms. He seems to know that she needs no coaxing. She's wearing silk underwear – she packed all of her nicest pairs – and she can hear his roughened fingers snag on the delicate fabric as he eases it down her thighs and helps her step out of it. She's barely gotten her feet back on the ground before he's shouldering them apart, crowding her thighs open and delving between them with an urgent, insistent tongue. He knows her well; it takes so little for him to bring her to a peak. She practically tugs the curtains down from their rod with the clutch of her hands, steadying herself against the dip of her knees at the pleasure that washes over her.

Her own taste is on his lips and tongue when he stands to kiss her, toeing off her shoes and his before lifting her up to stand atop his feet, his feet warm under her stocking-clad insteps. It thrills her how easily he takes her weight, how he holds her like she’s lighter than air as he walks her over to the bed, their feet taking each step together. When their knees hit the mattress, they topple together and land in a tangled heap, and he kisses her the whole way down and doesn’t stop. Sansa’s lips feel bruised by the time she catches sight of the bedside clock and notes the late hour with regret.

“Jon,” she says, pulling her lips away from his only to have him kiss over her cheek and jaw and down to her throat. “We should dress for dinner.”

“Not just yet.” He opens his hand over her backside and sinks his fingers deep, testing the yield of her where she’s softest. It makes her gasp and arch into him.

“But our reservation,” she says, but it’s a rather weak protest; she’s already parting her knees to allow his thigh to slip between hers. Her dress pulls and tugs against his movements, his thigh rubbing against her with delicious pressure.

“The reservation will keep,” he tells her. His voice is low and deep, it rubs over her like a caress, and she knows if she allows even one more moment of his touch, they’ll never get to dinner at all and she will have her evening out if it kills her.

“Jonnnn,” she wheedles, “you promised me a nice dinner out.” He sighs and drops his head against her breast, sounding so disappointed that Sansa laughs.

“Very well,” he says with a long-suffering sigh; long-suffering, the very idea – they’ve barely been a hairsbreadth apart since they left home. He helps her up with much fumbling of hands and soft touches that aren’t strictly necessary, so that she’s breathless by the time she shoos him out the door so she can change into a more formal dress. It’s silly, honestly, to affect such shyness when he’s seen and touched every inch of her, but he smiles at her as if he’s charmed by such modesty, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And she loves the way he looks at her when they’ve been apart, how a light kindles in his eyes when he sets them on her even when she’s been gone only minutes.

Her suitcase is still at the foot of the wardrobe where Jon had left it earlier. She sets it up on the and opens it, lifting her good dress from the layer of tissue paper she’d wrapped it in, precious tissue paper that she’s saved and reused so many times that it barely makes a sound. Such luxuries are still in short supply. Tonight feels like a luxury as well, as does the entire weekend away. The dress is not her fanciest by far; iIt’s even a bit informal for a nice dinner out, but she knows that Jon won’t care. She can hardly wait to see his face when she comes downstairs in it; it’s the polka-dot dress, the one she’d worn that long ago night when she’d first seen him. The one he’d said he remembered. She’s not worn it in front of him since, though she wore it often for Robb. For a moment, she thinks that she shouldn’t wear it, that it will somehow be too much. But she slips it on, her fingers trembling only slightly as she buttons it.

Her hair she leaves down, only the sides caught back in plain combs to leave the rest of it to tumble down her back. She hasn’t worn her hair down so much since she was a child. Even at night she’s always plaited it into a well-manned and manageable braid. But Jon loves her hair down. He would never tell her so, nor dream to tell her how to style it or wear her clothes or keep her home. It puts him a world away from Petyr, with his rules and rigid expectations. Even Robb had been free with his opinion and stubborn over many things. But Jon never makes the slightest effort to change anything about her, which strangely makes her more inclined to please him. Each time she wears her hair down and loose, his fingers stray to touch it again and again. She doesn’t plan to roll up her hair the rest of the weekend if she can help it.

The look on his face when she descends the stair is all she could have hoped. He looks on her with something close to awe, more genuine appreciation on his face than Sansa thinks she deserves. She can see his throat work as he swallows hard, hears the rustle of cloth as he rubs his hands on his trousers as if he’s as nervous as she. It works on her like magic, makes her own nerves dissolve, and she gives him a shy smile as she steps in front of him and holds out her necklace.

“Will you?” she asks. It takes him a moment to hear her words. Almost dumbly, he takes the necklace from her, and she turns to present him her back, gathering the fall of her hair up in one hand. Silently, he threads the chain around her neck and fastens it. His fingers feel big against the nape of her neck, rough and blunt, and she marvels that such fingers could fasten the delicate clasp of her necklace so easily. He runs one finger under the chain, his knuckle dragging along her skin to make her shiver. Then his hands slip to her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small circles over the fabric of her dress.

“You wore the dress,” he says, so quietly she barely hears him. She thinks to turn and face him, but his hand still sit heavy on her shoulders.

“Do you not like it?” she asks, her smile clear in her voice. His fingers squeeze for a moment before releasing her.

“You know I do,” he says, warm and low. Then he offers her his arm and she tucks her hand into his elbow, letting him lead her to the door, though she feels so light she thinks she could float and he could pull her along behind him like a balloon.

*

The maitre d’ scowls at them when they arrive a quarter hour past their reservation time. He scowls further when Sansa does not sit on the side of the booth he gestures towards, instead sliding in beside Jon on impulse, smiling impishly at his surprised intake of breath. It’s not the sort of thing that’s done, but Sansa doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything at all right now other than Jon and being as close to him as she can.

There’s something thrilling about being so close to him in a public place. No one they know is here to see them, but still Sansa has a sense of daring. She imagines everyone thinks they’re a couple, a _real_ couple in all ways. Albeit a shocking and improper couple; they get more than a few looks when she inches even closer to him, stealing food from his plate and sharing bites of her own that he takes from the fork she holds to his lips, not so differently than how she coaxed Rickon to eat when he was a baby. Jon does not seem to think she’s shocking or improper, though. His eyes heat with every touch and she can practically feel him vibrating against her.

“This is lovely,” she coos in his ear. Her head buzzes from the wine she’s had a little too much of and she feels languid and sexy. It’s a new feeling for her. She’s always been aware of her prettiness, and has sometimes even felt beautiful, but she’d not known she was capable of feeling sexy before Jon.

“ _You’re_ lovely,” he answers. His hand comes to rest on her thigh. He guides it in slow, hypnotic arcs, dragging her skirt and slip back and forth along the bare skin between her underwear and her stockings.

“You make me feel lovely,” she says. A reckless daring sweeps over here. She leans closer, until her lips brush the shell of his ear. “I can’t stop thinking of your mouth on me.” The sound he makes is something close to a moan.

“ _Sansa_.”

“I can’t wait for you to get me home and do it again. I want you to fuck me, Jon.” Her heart pounds at the vulgar words but she loves the feel of them on her tongue, loves how they make her feel wild and free and like someone else entirely.

“Not as much as I want to do it,” he tells her with a hoarse chuckle. Then his voice dips to a thrillingly low register. “I’d rather taste your cunt than the finest food.” She shivers, feeling her toes curl in her shoes.

“No one’s ever made me feel the way you do.” He seems to hear how her heart is in her voice. He catches her chin in one hand and tips her head up for his kiss, heedless of the other diners, some of whom must surely be watching them in disapproval. They only break apart when the waiter approaches and clears his throat, staring at a point on the wall behind them.

“May I interest you in dessert?” Jon gives Sansa a look so hot that she knows without any doubt he’s thinking of _her_ as his dessert.

“No,” he says. “Only the check, please.”

The night air is balmy when they leave; it smells sweet and heady, like jasmine. Sansa doesn’t think she’ll ever smell jasmine again without thinking of Jon and this night. He’s got his jacket over his arm in front of him as they walk to the car, but when he helps her in, she can see he’s hard in his trousers. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by it when she notices, and something about that leaves her feeling glad. It also makes her bold. Once they’ve driven out of town and are on the narrow road leading to the lake, Sansa turns so that her back is to the door and fixes her gaze on Jon. Without a word, she kicks her shoes to the floor and props one foot on the seat in front of her, her knee against the seat back. Her skirt slips down her thigh to pool in her lap, showing her stocking and garter. Jon glances over and promptly swerves partway into the oncoming lane before correcting. His jaw is slack when he glances back at her. Teasingly, slowly, so that he can see just what he intends even as he looks back and forth between her and the road, she drags her fingers over her knee and thigh, toying with the tops of her stockings before settling her hand over the spot that aches and throbs for him.

“Sansa, _God_.”

“Eyes on the road, Jon,” she purrs in a voice so throaty she can’t believe it belongs to her. Then she begins to move her hand.

The first stroke practically sends her out of her skin. It’s all so potent, the illicit thrill of it, the rasp of his breathing as he steals glances at her, the memory of his mouth on her only hours before. She bites her lips against the tiny whimpers that she can’t seem to stop. She wants to keep looking at Jon, but she can’t help closing her eyes and tipping her head back, her hand moving desperately now.

“Jon,” she says in a choked gasp. She’s dimly aware of the car jerking to the side, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls over and brings the car to an abrupt stop. He’s staring hard at her when she opens her eyes, both hands clutching the steering wheel as he breathes heavily. Then he’s upon her, kissing away what little breath she has left and covering her hand between her legs with his own to urge her to a release that bursts through her body like fireworks.

“Now,” he says once she’s regained her breath. His voice has a hitch in it that thrills her to her toes. “You stop that and behave until we get to the house, because there is only so much I can take and the next time I touch you, I am going to fuck you until you can’t walk. You are too much of a lady for me to do that in a fucking Buick.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be a lady,” she says, reveling in his words.

“You’re always a lady,” he says, giving her only one quick glance that’s so tender it could make her cry before he shifts the car into fear and pulls back on the road at far too fast a speed to be safe.

He lasts until they’ve parked and are on their way up the walk. He gestures for her to precede him but it’s difficult to move when he wraps his arms around her waist and his feet tangle with hers. He kisses her nape where the hair curls short and damp. She has to push at his arms to free herself and for a moment she can see confusion on his face until she turns and throws her arms around his neck. She’s not sure if she jumps or if he lifts her, but her legs are wrapping around his waist and his hand is at the back of her neck, tilting her head for his kiss as he walks her up the steps to the porch and into the house.

They don’t make it to a bed. They barely even make it inside. He only manages to shut the door behind him before he’s dropping to his knees, bearing her down to the floor beneath him. They make love right there on the floor of the entryway, her skirt pushed up around her waist and her underwear hastily removed and tossed aside. Their hands tangle and fumble open his belt and his trousers together, so he can push them down just past his hips before he falls on her, licking into her mouth as he enters her, somehow sating and stoking the need she has for him all at once.

“Oh,” she sighs against his lips. “Ohhh.” He answers her with another kiss, with the sweet rock of his hips, his chest tight against hers and his hands wound in her hair. She hooks her ankles at the small of his back. It doesn’t take him long; small wonder, as she’d spent the night teasing him. She holds him tight, smiles against his hair when he collapses on her breast. When he wriggles free to lie between her thighs, her smile drops off her face and she clutches his hair and works against his tongue until she’s found another release, this one even better than the last.

She’s not sure how long they’ve lain together when he sits up, tugging his trousers back into place before idly unbuttoning his shirt – she sees, to her giddy embarrassment, that several buttons are missing and probably at her hands – and shrugging out of it. Despite her languid bliss, Sansa’s heart speeds just looking at him in his undershirt, the white cotton bright against his skin, his muscles long and smooth over his shoulders and arms.

“Goodness, Jon, but you are handsome,” she says.

He grins at her and then he strips his undershirt off over his head, giving her heart even more of a reason to race. Her heart jolts in a different way when he stands and opens the curtains at the window by the door.

“Jon, someone will see!” Sitting up, she instinctively tugs her skirt and slip down. She has no idea where her underwear’s gone.

“There’s no one for a quarter of a mile, San,” he chuckles. “Besides, let them see. Fuck anyone who cares. You’re gorgeous.”

Giggling, she lets him help her to her feet. On impulse, she unbuttons her dress and slips it from her shoulders, letting it drop to her feet so that she stands in front of the window with him in her slip and stockings. His mouth quirks at her. It’s as if she’s issued a dare. Jon sheds his trousers in an instant, looking at her with a challenging grin. Her breath catches. Strange that she’s been so intimate with him but this is the first time she’s watched him undress like this. She’s always come to his bedroom in the night, slipping under the covers in the dark. Now he stands there in only his boxer shorts and she feels nervous and happy and shy. Seized by a burst of giddy energy, she reaches past him and pulls open the front door, darting out onto the porch and bouncing on her feet like a child being naughty. His mouth drops in surprise and he gives a bark of laughter and then he’s out there on the porch with her, the two of them outside in their underthings.

“All or nothing?” he asks her with a grin. She answers it with one of her own. Together they shed their last layers, Jon stepping out of his boxers and Sansa unclasping her garters and unhooking the belt. She has more complex underthings, and more of them, so he helps her, rolling her stockings down and slipping them from her feet while she undoes her brassiere, sliding the straps down her shoulders until she can pull it free from the neck of her slip. Now the slip is all that’s left to her and she looks at Jon in mute appeal when he straightens.

“Raise your arms,” he says softly. Obediently, she complies. The silk whispers over her skin like a caress as he gathers it and pulls it upwards. She closes her eyes and he tugs it past her face and up her arms, and then she’s completely bare before him in the light of the moon that reflects so brightly on the surface of the lake. She’s never been this naked in front of anyone before, not even him. She expects he’ll look his fill of her body, but he only looks at her face and his smile is the most wonderful thing she’s ever seen.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and she thinks she couldn’t be anything but in love with him. It fills her with a happiness so profound she could fly to the moon and back.

“Race you to the water,” she says, and dashes from the porch, grinning at the feel of the wind in her face, at his startled laugh and the sound of his feet on the path as he tears off after her. The dock thumps under her feet and he thumps after her. He’s almost caught up when she jumps into the water, hitting the surface with a happy shriek.

“I won,” she says when they’ve both surfaced, “I beat you, I won.” Her arms are around her neck and she kisses him with their naked bodies pressed together and drops of water sliding down their faces.

“To the victor go the spoils,” he says. “Do with me what you will.”

“I’ve got some ideas,” she says, and kisses him again.

*

He carries her from the lake to the house when they’ve grown pruned and cold, telling her that she’ll cut her feet on the rocks if she walks. She decides not to point out that he could cut his feet as well. It’s too nice to be taken care of.

All the way to the house he carries her, across the porch and through the door, and up the stairs to the bedroom. He sets her gently on her feet and tells her to wait while he fetches towels from the bathroom down the hall. Laughing, they dry each other, Jon making a good-natured protest when she throws a towel over his hair and rubs it briskly. Normally Sansa would tuck the towel about herself but once she’s dry, she drops the towel and steps into his arms again.

“I like this no clothes thing,” she says

“Let’s not wear clothes all weekend,” he says. Sansa laughs. Jon’s hands are big and warm on her back, his feet just as warm beneath hers.

“That would be a bit limiting,” she says. “Whatever could we do all weekend with no clothes?” She smiles at him impishly, her heart melting when he kisses each corner of her mouth and then the tip of her nose.

“Oh,” he says as he walks her back towards the bed like he did when they arrived. “I’ve got some ideas.”


End file.
